Chapter II: Temptation

For a moment Cole forgot that he was in a building devoted to the pursuits of commerce. The room in which he stood, bordered by walls of paneled walnut, was worthy of a Fifth Avenue mansion. It struck him as a bit grotesque. From an elevator he had stepped, through a blank wall, into a magnificence that fairly dazzled him. It was like an “Arabian Nights” adventure. As he looked about him he saw quiet elegance everywhere, without a taint of showiness. For some time he stood lost in admiration, then he noticed that the room had no windows. A moment later he discovered that the door was locked on the outside. Despite the splendor that surrounded him he was virtually a prisoner.

He sat down and smoked a cigarette, waiting for his strange conductress to return. Evidently the walls were solidly built, for no sounds reached him. The air was fresh and pure despite the absence of windows, hinting that there was a concealed ventilator somewhere in the room.

The armchair was comfortable, and he stretched out his lean figure, slightly short of six feet. The man suggested mental force rather than bodily strength, but a great surprise awaited any antagonist who underestimated Cole’s physical prowess. He was far stronger than the average man, and his endurance was phenomenal. His gray eyes, with a faint humorous twinkle in their depths, were fixed on the door. His dark face, slightly lined about the mouth and the outer corner of the eyes, bore a look of mild expectancy. In moments of repose he looked as though he had not a care in the world. His friends often wondered how he managed to maintain the freshness and sparkle suggestive of a recent needle shower. Perhaps it was because he was thoroughly in love with his work and had learned to shake off the minor frets and irritations of life.

In the midst of his musings the door opened, and he stared rather rudely at the vision that entered. It was the woman, and she had undergone an amazing transformation since he last saw her. He wondered whether the shimmering gown she wore had been designed by Poiret himself. Its delicate rose color afforded a charming contrast to her complexion, a sort of luminous white that somehow escaped being pale. Standing there, with a faint smile on her lips, her face fringed by an aureole of fine-spun gold, she was easily the most bewitching woman Cole had ever seen.

He rose, bowed, and gazed appreciatively at the simple, but strikingly effective, ornament she wore at her throat.

“Sorry to have kept you waiting,” she murmured. “Sit down, please, and smoke as much as you like. I want to talk with you.”

Cole sat down. He wondered if she had arrayed herself like this for the sole purpose of having a talk with him.

“You promised to tell me something more about the Carmody case,” he reminded her. “I suppose you brought me to this charming place so that we might have a quiet talk without danger of interruption or eavesdropping.”

She sat down a short distance from him. By degrees the smile faded from her lips. A curiously solemn expression crept into her face. “Haven’t I told you enough, Mr. Cole?”

“What little you told me was only a provocation. It gave me a taste for more. By the way, you have the advantage over me. Won’t you tell me your name?”

“You may call me Miss Brown.”

“The name doesn’t fit you,” he objected.

“Names never do fit. That’s one of the ironies of existence. For the present, until we know each other better, it will have to be Miss Brown. I had to tell you a little about the Carmody case in order to get your attention. I hope I convinced you that it is quite useless for you to continue at work on a case that is so enormous in scope and presents such insuperable difficulties, Mr. Cole.” A pleading note had come into her voice. “Can anything persuade you to drop the Carmody case?”

She bent forward a little. With hands clasped across her knee, she studied him intently, and Cole looked into the deepest, bluest eyes he had ever seen.

“Drop the Carmody case!” he exclaimed.

“You must drop it, Mr. Cole! If you knew more about it, what terrible things you are going up against, you would willingly drop it without further argument. You would recognize your utter helplessness in the matter, not to mention a number of other things.”

Cole was momentarily speechless. He found himself strangely impressed by her big, sorcerous eyes, full of mute pleading and entreaty.

“I don’t understand. You don’t realize what you are saying. Why should I drop the case?”

“Because of the things I have told you.”

Cole laughed. “They are only an added incentive for me to go on with it.”

She drew a long breath. “That’s your man’s way of looking at things. The greater the dangers and difficulties the more determined you are to forge ahead. You don’t stop to consider the price, or estimate the cost. The wreckage you scatter about you means nothing to you. All you think of is the gratification of your boundless ambition. Mr. Cole, won’t you forgo your foolish pride and do what I ask?”

Her eyes held him despite his will. There was a look of terror in their depths that exerted a subtle appeal upon him. He got to his feet and tried to shake off the fascination of her beauty and her magnetic personality.

“Impossible,” he declared. “If you brought me here in the hope of inducing me to drop the Carmody case, your time and effort are wasted.”

“Please, Mr. Cole! Forget that you ever heard of this terrible case. Tell your clients in the morning that you will have nothing further to do with it.”

“That wouldn’t alter matters. They would promptly accept my resignation and engage somebody else.”

“There is only one Kingdon Cole.”

“That’s a very neat compliment, but it won’t bear analysis. I haven’t accomplished anything very wonderful, and another man could finish what I have begun.”

She was silent for a time, her big, luminous eyes regarding him imploringly. “If you won’t drop the case for your own sake, because of the terrible dangers involved, then I beg you to do so for my sake.”

“For your sake? Really, Miss—er—Brown, I don’t understand. What is your interest in the Carmody case?”

She stepped up and clutched his hand. The touch of her fingers sent a thrill through him. Her eyes were moist, and the curve beneath her throat rose and fell with accelerated rhythm. “Yes, for my sake. I can’t explain, except to say that awful things will happen to me if you go on. Death would be as nothing in comparison. Doesn’t a woman’s soul mean anything to you, Mr. Cole?”

Cole looked down into her eyes, while her fingers spasmodically clutched his hand. Far into their blue depths he gazed, and suddenly his face underwent a change. His lips curled a trifle, and a hard glint came into his eyes. Somewhat roughly he released his hand.

“Very touching,” he dryly remarked, “but I don’t see the connection between the Carmody case and a woman’s soul.”

She drew back with a little sob of bafflement.

“If you meant your own soul, Miss Brown, you mentioned something that doesn’t exist,” he went on sarcastically. “Trickery and pretense are poor substitutes for soul.”

“What do you mean?”

He shrugged disgustedly. “Your acting is superb, but it don’t bear close inspection. You were splendid at a little distance. Despite the fact that I am the only Kingdon Cole, as you so charmingly phrased it, I am rather susceptible to the tears of a beautiful woman. With your sobs and your loveliness you could have melted a stone, if such a feat were possible. As soon as I got a close view of you, however, I knew you were only shamming. Your eyes gave you away when you sprung that choice line about a woman’s soul. Perhaps you realized you were laying the pathos on too thick. Anyway the illusion is shattered, and all that remains is the gorgeous gown you are wearing. It is really stunning.”

“Thank you,” she said coldly, dropping the rôle she had been playing, as easily as she would a wrap. “No doubt I should have known better than to try such methods on you.”

“Yes, you should,” said Cole. “For, despite the little slip you made, I believe that you are really a very clever woman. Now that we are off the subject of women’s souls won’t you tell me your real reason for wishing to throw up the Carmody case?”

She shook her head, but he thought he detected a gleam of unwilling admiration in her eyes. Motioning him to follow, she stepped to the door and opened it, then preceded him down the hall. Cole guessed that his little adventure was over, and he felt a twinge of disappointment at the thought that, in all probability, he would never learn the meaning of her puzzling behavior. No doubt she would try to blindfold him again before conducting him away from the place, and he was prepared to raise strenuous objections.

But it appeared Miss Brown was not yet ready to let him go. She stopped before one of the massive doors that had already excited his curiosity, and knocked twice. It opened quickly and noiselessly. In a moment, before he realized what he was doing, Cole was inside, and the door closed at his back.

The room was so dimly lighted that at first he could distinguish nothing but bare, gloomy walls. Miss Brown, who had followed him into the room, hastened forward and seemed to melt away in the dusk, leaving him to wonder what new turn his adventure was taking. Gradually, as his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he was able to see objects with some degree of clearness. He was in a long, narrow room, and what he saw was in keeping with the other strange things that he had witnessed and experienced in this surprising establishment.

A number of shadowy figures were seated around a circular table in the center of the room. He counted seven of them, and at first he had a ludicrous impression that there were only blank spaces where their faces should have been. Then, as his pupils continued to respond to the strain imposed by the dim light, he saw that each man wore a mask. It was only a strip of cloth, with tiny slits over the eyes, but in the dusk it was the only covering that was needed to make recognition impossible.

Again Cole was struck with a sense of unreality. The men, sitting stiffly erect in their chairs, caused him to wonder whether he was in the midst of some ghostly séance. He felt their eyes searching him through the vents in the masks. The gloom and the silence gave an added illusory touch to the scene. Cole had to shake himself before he could realize that he was on the top floor of a modern skyscraper.

Miss Brown stepped behind one of the chairs and held a brief whispered conversation with its occupant. The latter nodded, and the girl slipped away toward the door. A moment later it closed behind her, and the man, with whom she had been talking, indicated that Cole was to step forward. With a shrug he complied, and the masked faces stirred slightly as he approached. For a full minute nothing was said, and again he felt the sharp and steady scrutiny of seven pairs of eyes. Finally the man who had beckoned him spoke. “Mr. Cole, how much will you take to drop the Carmody case?”

Cole could not help but laugh. The words, spoken with a directness and a matter-of-factness that left nothing to the imagination, had shattered the illusion completely. In an instant the spell of unreality was broken. He knew he was dealing with practical men who were in the habit of reducing everything to terms of dollars and cents. A blunt reply came to his lips, but his desire to learn more of these strange men caused him to hold it back.

“Suppose we put all the cards on the table,” he suggested. “I don’t like to talk business in the dark. Who are you, and what is your objection to my connection with the Carmody case?”

“We are not here to answer questions,” declared the one who seemed to be acting as spokesman for the others. “All I care to say is that, because of a peculiar combination of circumstances, it is to our advantage to pay you liberally for withdrawing from the case. What’s your price, Mr. Cole?”

Under ordinary circumstances, Cole would have been indignant at this cool assumption that every man has his price, but now his dominant emotion was curiosity. He could not understand why they seemed so intent upon persuading him to sever his connection with the affair, but what Miss Brown had said about the vast ramifications of the Carmody case suggested that they had ample reasons for what they were doing.

“Let me get this straight,” he said evenly. “You are willing to pay me my price for withdrawing from the Carmody case. Are there any strings to the proposition?”

The other chuckled dryly. “I wouldn’t call them strings, exactly. They are only gossamer threads. In addition to retiring from the case you are to give us a full and veracious report of what you have discovered to date in connection with the disappearance of Malcolm Reeves.”

“I see,” said Cole. “Anything else?”

“Just one thing more. In addition to withdrawing from your present connection with the case and turning the information you possess over to us, you are to come over to our side and put your ability at our disposal. We are ready to pay you handsomely for your services, either on a contingent basis, or in the form of a weekly salary.”

“Very generous,” declared Cole, with a faint trace of sarcasm. “Your proposition is that, for a consideration, I am to betray my present clients and——”

“Betray is a harsh word,” objected the spokesman for the group.

“Truthful terms are usually harsh,” Cole remarked. “Let’s not quibble over words. In addition to the amount, which you are willing to pay me for betraying my clients, you offer to reward me liberally for certain services that you require. May I ask what they are?”

“You will learn soon enough if you accept our proposition. Let me state that we have unlimited funds at our disposal and stand ready to pay you well. It would be no exaggeration to say that in a short time you should be a rich man if you accept our offer. In view of our liberality don’t you think it behooves you to be less squeamish and ask fewer questions?”

“I suppose it is in deucedly bad taste for me to argue with a man who offers me a fortune on a silver platter,” Cole admitted. “Just the same I can’t help wondering why you are offering such a glittering bribe to one who is practically unknown in his profession.”

The man gave an amused chuckle. “Don’t worry about that, Mr. Cole. We are not in the habit of buying pigs in a poke. You have been under observation for some time.”

“So I gathered from what the bewitching Miss—Brown told me.”

“We have learned that you have a great deal of ability. You are fearless and persevering. You have qualities that the average professional detective sadly lacks, such as tact, polish, and a magnetic personality. In short, you are precisely the kind of man we need. We have reason to believe that you have discovered certain interesting facts in connection with Malcolm Reeves’ disappearance, facts which would naturally become our property if you came over to our side.”

Cole marveled at the extent of the man’s knowledge. It was true that he had picked up several stray facts which, when considered in conjunction with the known circumstances of Reeves’ disappearance, made a fairly interesting showing. His glance wandered over the circle of veiled faces. Each of the seven men was watching him intently through the slits in his mask.

“We are waiting for your decision, Mr. Cole,” remarked the spokesman after a pause. “If our proposition appeals to you, name your price.”

Cole pretended to hesitate. He hoped to learn a little more before he closed the interview. He wondered how far these men would go in their efforts to induce him to betray his clients and transfer his allegiance to themselves. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” he asked. “Do you realize that a man who has been bought once will probably sell himself again?”

Though he could not see, he fancied the spokesman’s eyes were twinkling behind the mask.

“We have considered everything, Mr. Cole. You wouldn’t sell yourself except to a higher bidder, and it isn’t likely any one will outbid us. If such a situation should arise, however, we would know how to handle it. What is your price?”

“Suppose you name the price you are willing to pay?”

There was a craning of necks, and nods and subdued whispers passed around the circle. Evidently the seven construed his words as meaning that he was yielding. The spokesman unlocked a drawer in front of him and placed a small package on the table.

“Twenty-five thousand dollars,” he remarked impressively. “If you are in doubt as to the amount, or if you suspect that I am handing you stage money, you will be permitted to examine it in the light.”

He handed the package to Cole. “Remember that this is only your retaining fee, so to speak. There will be lots more coming to you if you decide to throw in your lot with us.”

Cole felt the crisp fiber of the bills. He did not doubt that the money was genuine or that the package contained the exact amount mentioned by the spokesman. Whatever else these men might do, he did not think they would stoop to petty cheating. An odd sensation surged through him as he weighed the currency in the palm of his hand. It was more money than had ever before come within his reach. Of a sudden he remembered some of the things he had been compelled to deny himself because of his slender and uncertain income. Until this moment, when he held the wherewithal in his hand, it had not occurred to him that he was missing any of the good things in life. He had accepted his privations, as a matter of course, with a smile or a shrug, according to his mood of the moment.

For a few seconds longer he gave himself over to thrill of possession, and then he tossed the bundle of currency down on the table. “It isn’t enough,” he declared.

A chorus of murmurs went around the circular table. The veiled faces strained forward a little. Once again Cole fancied the spokesman’s eyes were twinkling through the orifices in the mask.

“Splendid, Mr. Cole,” said the man approvingly. “I didn’t think twenty-five thousand would satisfy you, but I wanted to make sure. As a matter of fact, if you had accepted such a paltry amount, we would have broken off the negotiations instantly. We don’t want a man who holds himself cheap. Here”—again he opened the drawer in front of him—“is another twenty-five thousand. That makes fifty. Quite a neat sum for a man whose income last year was only a trifle over four thousand.”

“How did you know that?”

“Income-tax reports,” said the man.

Cole took one bundle of currency in each hand. He was no longer marveling at the surprising sources of information that seemed to be open to these men. For the moment all his senses were centered on the wealth that lay in his palms. A flash of self-revelation came to him, and he was surprised and frightened by it. He had never known that mere money could give him such a delectable sensation. In the past, as a passive onlooker, he had smiled tolerantly at other men’s scramble for wealth. With philosophic eyes he had watched the money-mad procession sweep by him. Now he found that the sheer touch of the currency sent a contagion through his veins, awakening strange emotions within him.

The sensation put an indefinable fear into him, fear of himself and the weakness he had just discovered. Of a sudden the currency seemed to scorch his palms. He shrugged, and the spell was broken. With an inward paroxysm he flung the money down on the table. “Not even that is enough,” he announced in slightly dazed tones, like one just awakening from a dream.

The spokesman’s head came up a little. With a shrug and an indistinct mutter he once more opened the drawer, but Cole laid a detaining hand on his sleeve.

“Wait!” he said quietly. “You are going ahead on the idea that every man has his price. You’re mistaken. There isn’t money enough in the whole United States treasury to buy me.”

There came a hush, and then a ripple of commotion went around the table. It died instantly as the spokesman raised a silencing hand. He tilted his head back, and through the holes in the mask his eyes bored into Cole’s face. For a time not a sound was heard in the room. Finally the spokesman gave a short, contemptuous laugh. “I see,” he declared. “You’re a weakling like most men. You’re a slave to the absurd thing we call conscience. I had hoped that you were one of the rare exceptions.”

“Wrong again,” said Cole, smiling. “It isn’t conscience. Anyway, I wouldn’t call it that. It is only pride, a foolish pride, perhaps. I want to go through life knowing that I can look every man straight in the eye and tell him to go to the devil if necessary. I couldn’t do that if I were to sell myself. I should become a despicable thing in my own eyes, and life wouldn’t be worth living after that. I don’t suppose you understand, but that’s just how I feel.”

Seven pairs of eyes were leveled at Cole’s face as his short, crisp sentences fell on the tense air. Then came silence, a long and oddly vibrant silence during which Cole experienced an unaccountable feeling that his life hung in the balance. He could neither understand it nor trace it to its source, but the nameless sense of danger grew more distinct with every moment.

By instinct his hand went to the hip pocket in which he always carried a small, but reliable, pistol. Before his hands could touch the weapon a strange thing happened. The spokesman’s arm described a slight movement in the dusk, and in a twinkling utter darkness fell. Cole stood in blackness so intense that it seemed as though he could touch it.

His fingers found the handle of the pistol, but in the next instant his hand fell to his side. In that impenetrable darkness the weapon was of no more avail than a toy. He heard a faint scraping of chairs, then a patter of feet. He groped for the chair where the spokesman had sat, but it was empty. Gradually the faint sounds ceased, and then came an engulfing silence. It was as if every manifestation of life had been drained out of the blackness that surrounded him.

Silence—darkness—solitude. Cole, as he dropped into the spokesman’s chair, felt as if the three words had suddenly acquired a new and more powerful significance.